A Thousand Miles Away
by Call Me Babykins
Summary: The last thing Sam would want was Dean's help, but that didn't stop him. It was like he didn't have a choice: Sam needed him and Dean had to take care of him. Alternate ending to episode 8x6 Southern Comfort. Established, non-explicit Wincest. Rated for implied sexual content.
1. Disclaimer

Prompt: Its Wincest of course :) in "Southern Comfort", Garth isn't there to stop Dean from shooting Sam, but it doesn't kill Sam, but it seriously hurts him. Leaves for hurt!Sam guilty!Loving!Dean ^_^ think you can do it? :)

The following contains content which some may find offensive, including implied incest and explicit profanity. Discretion is advised.

Spoilers for episode 8x6 Southern Comfort.

Supernatural and its characters belong to Eric Kripke. Cover image is a screen capture from the episode. That doesn't belong to me either, I just edited it for use on ff.


	2. Chapter 1

He tried to ignore the pained little sounds coming from the bathroom, but Sam'd been in there for a long time. The last thing Sam would want was his help cleaning the gunshot wound.

But Dean'd never been good at ignoring Sam when he was hurting. Dean walked past the half-open bathroom door, peeking in. Sam was standing in front of the sink, still gingerly peeling his FED shirt away from the bloody wound.

The last thing Sam would want was Dean's help, but that didn't stop Dean from pushing the bathroom door the rest of the way open and tugging at Sam's uninjured arm. It was like he didn't have a choice: Sam needed him and Dean_ had_ to take care of him.

"You need my help."

"I'm fine." Sam's voice was terse, tight with pain and irritation.

"It wasn't a question. Sit down." Dean pulled Sam back into the motel room, toward the end of one of the beds.

Sam sat, likely complying more out of exhaustion than anything. He didn't look up while Dean cut away the bloody shirt and cleaned the wound. He kept his eyes down while Dean wrapped his shoulder, wincing slightly at the pull of the gauze. It was a deep, open graze, but the bullet had passed through completely, taking a bloody furrow out of the meat of Sam's shoulder. But it could have been so much worse.

Dean forced himself to concentrate on the wound, on cleaning it, on the bandage, on the sound of Sam's shallow, tense breathing. He wouldn't think about how easily he could've hit Sam in the head, or in the chest, or in the fucking stomach: it wasn't like Sam was a small, easy to miss target.

He wouldn't think about it. He _couldn't _think about how easily he could've lost Sam.

"Sammy—"

"Just don't."

Dean finished wrapping the wound. He was half-hard just standing between Sam's open thighs. If he checked, he'd probably find Sam in the same situation. If this were before purgatory, if this were any other injury, they would already be kissing, touching, they'd already be crawling up the bed, shedding clothes to rut against each other skin on skin.

They had been so close. But just like every other time: once they seemed to stumble onto the perfect ratio of brother to lover, things got fucked up and complicated and out of control, leaving them dazed and broken.

Sam put his hand against Dean's hip, pushing him away, but Dean tightened his stance. He had so many things he wished he could say—"I'm sorry," "I love you," "Please it wasn't me," "You _have_ to know that I would never say those things to you"—but he had no idea where to start.

So he started the only way he knew how. He dropped to his knees in front of Sam, following the seams of Sam's slacks up his thighs.

"Dean," Sam warned, but made no move to push Dean away.

Dean's fingers reached the seam juncture above Sam's crotch. He traced lazy circles around the raised stitching before leaning in, nuzzling Sam's groin. He was relieved in a way he would never admit to find that Sam was aroused too, his cock heavy in the restrictive slacks. Dean rubbed his cheek along the familiar length, moving slow, waiting for Sam to react. Waiting for Sam to push him away.

When no rebuff came, Dean unbuttoned his brother's slacks. It was then that Sam reached down, cradling Dean's face with one enormous hand. Dean froze, closing his eyes. He couldn't ask Sam not to be angry—he deserved whatever he got—but it hurt so much to know that when Sam tilted his face up, there would be a resounding "no" in his little brother's eyes.

"Please, Sammy . . ." The words were almost a whimper.

"What would it prove, Dean?" Sam sounded so tired. He drew little circles beside Dean's mouth with his thumb. "That you missed me? That you're sorry? I already know that. We can't . . . You can't just fuck this and make it go away."

"I would never say those things, Sam,"

"But you did, Dean."

"You have to know I didn't—that I would never—" Dean his voice was thick with tears; he squeezed his eyes shut tighter as if that could stop them from falling. He could not articulate how fragile he felt, how terrified he was that after everything, after he'd come back from heaven and hell and even fucking purgatory to be with Sam something as simple as words uttered under the influence of a cursed fucking penny could destroy them.

Dean jumped when Sam began speaking. He forgot about the tears and opened his eyes. Sam looked so damn sad.

"You never forgave me?" he asked. "All these fucking years I thought . . . I thought we were past this. I thought we could really be . . . But you never forgave me for Stanford, for Ruby, for losing my fucking soul."

He didn't need to say it for Dean to hear the desperate "I don't know what else we can do. We've tried everything to make this work, _everything_," in Sam's voice.

And Dean couldn't speak, couldn't tell Sam how much the idea of being without him was worse than hell, couldn't express how the thought of Sam's waiting arms had been the only thing that kept him sane in purgatory. He couldn't say anything.

Instead he caressed Sam's hand where it lay across his cheek, deliberating. He could kiss Sam before he shoved him away; it might be the last chance he got. It didn't take long for Dean to decide.

He surged up from his knees, pressing his lips to Sam's, tangling his hands in Sam's ridiculous long hair. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but for a moment he could've sworn that he felt Sam kissing back, but then Sam was turning away, pushing Dean away. And Dean let himself be pressed back, away from Sam.

Sam licked his lips, not meeting Dean's gaze. "Don't. Just . . . don't."

It took real effort for Dean to untangle his hands from Sam's hair. To push himself away from the familiar scent and warmth and shape of Sam's body. To turn from the only thing he had ever really wanted and walk away.

It was then, out of Sam's direct line of sight, feeling empty and alone, that Dean's words came.

"It's not . . . Fuck, Sam, I forgive you—I _forgave_ you—but I just . . ." He expected Sam to cut him off. When Sam was injured and tired and emotionally vulnerable he got short tempered, impatient, but Sam didn't say anything so even though Dean hadn't—couldn't've—planned the words they kept pouring out of him. "Every time you go—every single fucking time you leave me and you go to someone else—I just . . . I have to wonder if you ever wanted this at all, if you ever wanted me. I feel like I forced this on you—fuck, we've been more than brothers since before you really even hit puberty. And I just . . . I don't know what I'll do if you leave me for real. I . . . I don't know how to live without you, Sammy. It fucking terrifies me. More than anything."

He didn't turn for Sam's reaction. There wasn't going to be one.

Dean grabbed his leather jacket and the keys to the Impala on the way out the door, knowing that Sam would be asleep—a thousand miles away even though they slept in parallel motel beds—when he got back. If he was there at all.


End file.
